


Dishonoured

by ssstrychnine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/pseuds/ssstrychnine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this anonymous prompt for the the asoiaf kink-meme:<br/>Post-canon: Brienne and Jaime have somehow survived the various wars and tribulations in Westeros. But now marriage waits for Brienne - again. (Because her father just wants her to see safe and settled down somewhere? Because of political reasons? Etc.) She's desperate enough to want to get out of this - so she wants to ask Jaime to deflower and "dishonour", and he can't decide whether he's really angered by the proposoal or really, really into it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dishonoured

Brienne practises asking him a thousand times before she even leaves her room at the inn. She goes through all the answers he could give and it takes her hours to imagine his response as anything but laughter. Jaime is her _friend_ , practically her only friend, and he joined the Kingsguard to avoid marriage, he will understand. But still she paces and frets and her hair is a birds nest from the nervous fingers she drags through it. 

She leaves Lannisport with the sun. She’d planned to leave earlier, to arrive in Casterly Rock with the day still bright, but she has changed her plan too many times since then. She has saddled her horse to ride back to Storm’s End and on to Tarth to do her duty and she has saddled her horse to ride to Casterly Rock and Jaime Lannister and disgrace and she has saddled her horse to ride north, to the Wall, to plead for them to take her. Jaime is her only real option, he won’t laugh at her. _He will understand_.

The wind ruffles her hair even more as she rides and she looks half wild by the time she arrives at the castle. It doesn't matter, she’s not a lady come to plead for a betrothal. She’s an ugly maid come to plead for something far less honourable though perhaps more likely. She hopes. He _will_ understand. 

The guards let her through without a word. They know her, everyone has heard of Brienne the Beauty, and there is no doubt that it’s her. Their lord speaks of her often and with more kindness than he affords anyone else. 

He is in some small solar near the Golden Gallery, a practise sword idle in one hand, his golden hand discarded on a table. He opens his mouth in confusion when she enters the room, then closes it when she closes the door behind her. 

“Jaime,” she says, shoving a fall of tangled hair from her eyes. “I must ask a favour of you.”

“ _Brienne_?” he’s is in front of her in two strides, dumping the sword on a chair, taking her in with concern. “You look...are you _hurt_?”

“What?” Brienne shakes her head. “No, Jaime, I would prefer this to be done quickly.”

“Wait a moment, wench,” he beams at her suddenly, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, and her stomach knots. “I have not had the pleasure of your company in some time, what has kept you from me?”

“Family,” she murmurs darkly. “I am caught in duty, it is why I’ve come here now. Jaime, I am to be betrothed.” There is a long silence where Jaime just stares at her and she tugs anxiously at a lock of her hair and his expression changes a thousand times, nothing etched out clearly enough for her to understand. 

“Congratulations,” he says finally, his voice somewhat strangled. _He will understand_ , Brienne thinks. “What match has your father made for you? A...a kind one, I hope.”

“The match isn’t made yet, and I hope to avoid it entirely, that is why I’m here. You must...help me, Jaime.” Her skin floods with colour and Jaime frowns in confusion.

“I don’t understand,” he says slowly. “I cannot keep you here, away from your marriage.”

“No, but you can...you can....dishonour me,” she chokes the words out, unable to meet his eyes, her skin flamed red and her hands trembling. There is another long silence, but she can hear him figuring it out, can pinpoint the moment when he understands what she’s asking him, a sharp intake of breath and then a much sharper silence. She looks at him and he is watching her with narrowed eyes, like he is making an appraisal. Brienne is startled to see the remains of a blush fading from his cheeks. _He will understand_ , she clutches at the thought desperately. “My lord, I am sorry...I should not --”

“The maid of Tarth,” he murmurs. “You are asking me to... _deflower_ you?”

“If it please my lord,” she blurts, shutting her eyes tight to his closed off expression, regretting her girlish words immediately.

“If it _please_ me,” his voice is sharp, harsh with anger and she opens her eyes. He looks harried, scowling at the air next to her, running his hands through his hair. Soon he will look as wild as her, but always beautiful. “Brienne, you shouldn’t have to...I’m your...I...” he drops his hand to his side, brushing his fingers across the sheath at his waist like he needs a sword to fight her off. Brienne thinks this is worse than if he laughed, he is angry that she would even ask. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, backing to the door, reaching behind her blindly for the knob. “I should not have come.” 

“No just...wait,” he reaches to her and she flinches and his hand drops again. “You’re....” his eyes search her face and her body and her wild hair. He steps toward her, so close she can smell his breath, like lemons. “You are scared of your request?” he asks gently. 

“I...I confess I did not consider what would happen should you agree,” she whispers nervously. Her heartbeat sounds like drums in her ear, like the march of an army, like the cheers of a tourney crowd. _He will understand_. Jaime licks his lips.

“Shall I show you, my lady?” Brienne, her voice trapped in her throat by nerves and fear and desire, nods.

With his good hand he cups her cheek, with his stump at the small of her back, he pulls her to him. She stumbles some, her hands lie against his chest and all she can see is that they are still shaking. Then Jaime kisses her, a soft brush of his lips against hers, so brief and slight, but she can feel it to her bones, and everything falls into place. She chases the kiss back to him, presses close, slips her arms around his neck, and the way he smiles against her mouth quiets the thoughts tripping through her head and tension flows from her like water. 

When his tongue traces the seam of her mouth she parts her lips obligingly, lets him push her backwards, hard against the door, lets him lick open her mouth and kiss her like he’s searching for something. She kisses back just as fierce, she tangles her fingers in his hair, so tight his breath hisses sharp against her mouth and his teeth snag on her chapped lips and she shivers, wiggles closer to him, as close as she can. 

Jaime slips his hands under her shirt, his callused fingers perfectly rough against the smooth skin of her back. He breaks the kiss, rests his forehead against hers, his eyes calm, almost grave, as sincere as anything she’s ever seen and green as emeralds.

“I would _dishonour_ you,” he whispers, his voice ragged and hot. Brienne’s breath catches in her throat for just a moment, then she pushes him back, kisses him desperate and urgent, fumbles so clumsily with the buttons on his shirt that one tears off completely and skitters across the floor. Jaime laughs and matches her move for move and soon both shirts are puddles of fabric on the floor. He kisses the freckles that adorn her shoulders, she bites bruises down his neck. She finds herself pushed against the door again, Jaime’s hand splayed across her breast, his thumb drawing circles around her nipple, his mouth hot and hot and hot, his cock hard against her thigh.

Her hands shake at the laces of his breeches and he doesn’t even attempt to unlace hers with one hand that’s busy anyway. She slips them off herself and smiles to remember the last time they were unclothed together. In the warmth of a bath and of fever and of trauma. This is different, she thinks and his hand traces the skin to her bellybutton and lower between them. This is different, she thinks as his finger presses inside her and she gasps into his shoulder, moans in a way that makes him hiss into her hair. He adds another finger, she bites his shoulder. His thumb rubs and curves between her legs and her knees almost give out but his body keeps her upright.

“It will hurt,” he murmurs and she shakes her head, digs her fingers into his hips, pulls him closer. He grins, a savage flash of teeth, pulls his fingers from her. But she only feels empty for a moment before he’s there again. She’s slick and open and waiting and he holds her eyes with his as he pushes inside her. It does hurt, sharp and sudden, but only for a minute, and he’s hurt her worse before. He kisses her, more tender than anything, soft and warm and intimate. Briefly she thinks that it shouldn’t be like this, like it’s more than a favour she’s asked him as a friend, but then he’s moving, thrusting into her, and her knees are weak again and she clutches at him, digs her fingers into her back, slides her knee up to his waist, tries anything to get him closer. She can’t pretend she hasn’t dreamed of this. 

She peaks quickly, and with a sharp cry she would be embarrassed of in any other situation, and he does a moment after, shuddering against her, his mouth open and wet at her collarbone. They hold each other against the door, their bodies shaking and weak. He laughs as he pulls out of her and away and she blushes, turns to face the door as she pulls her clothing back on.

“You’ve ruined my shirt,” Jaime teases quietly, holding up the garment. She shrugs. He looks lush and golden with his breeches still half unlaced and no shirt. 

“You’ve ruined _me_ ,” she retorts, buttoning her own shirt with quick movements. “Thank you, Jaime.” 

“You’re welcome, my lady,” his grin widens. “Now you go back to your father and tell him the lame lion attempted to seduce you and you, just a maid and already half in love, were easily swayed.”

“I am unmarriable once again,” she agrees quietly. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” he steps forward, takes her hand. “Your prospects are just rather more limited.” And he presses his lips to the back of her hand and green eyes meet blue and she smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I can't get enough of this ship. This is the first time I've written actual, actual sex so like, please tell me if I've done it terribly and I'll stop forever!


End file.
